


March 31st

by ghostwriting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriting/pseuds/ghostwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The date had popped up in his mind as he was getting dressed, the month and day fitting like they have always belonged together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	March 31st

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thecityofpaper](http://thecityofpaper.tumblr.com/).

March 31st: Sherlock stands at the kitchen table, fingering the soft blue bow on a single green paper wrapped box, second-guessing what he was about to do.

He deletes unimportant and mundane things.

He deletes information like the fact that the sun rises from the East, and ignores the blatant truth that the Earth goes around the sun. He does not remember dates that do not involve specific cases.

Sherlock frowns at the tiny box in his hand.

He cannot bring himself to recall his mother or Mycroft’s birthday. He does not even remember his own date of birth.

Yet he remembers John’s.

The date had popped up in his mind as he was getting dressed, the month and day fitting like they have always belonged together. March 31st.

His brain had felt the date important enough to be stored, and yet he could not seem to recall when John had ever mentioned it to him.

Could it have been Molly? Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?

_Mrs. Hudson._

Sherlock decides that she must have been busying herself with the stocking of flour, eggs, chocolate, butter and cream, a constant, visual reminder that John’s birthday was round the corner.

Satisfied with fixing the root cause of the peculiar situation to their landlady, Sherlock sets the gift down on the table and proceeds to brew tea.

Sherlock’s hand stills as he reaches for the tea bag, narrowing his eyes at the brew he picks out. “Green Earl Grey Tea”, he reads, slowly withdrawing his hand.

Not only was it uncharacteristic of him to be the first to make the morning brew, he does not drink earl grey.

That is John’s pick.

Sherlock shakes his head and proceeds to brew. There is a first time for everything, and it should logically apply to tea and birthday presents too.

_But I don’t prepare presents._

Not for Christmas, not for birthdays. Unless it involved packaging clues or explosives, gift giving has always been an unnecessary and pointless human activity in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock glances at the wrapped box as he hears John enter the shower.

He contemplates chucking it into the bin.

It is nothing particularly big or special, yet Sherlock knows that he had spent a fair amount of time deliberating on an appropriate gift when he could have been conducting various tests on the heads in the refrigerator.

Sherlock pours a cup of tea for John and leans against the counter, pressing the tips of his fingers together.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

“Mad,” says Sherlock to himself. “I have gone mad.”

Sherlock whirls around, gripping the mug of tea, the force of action causing the steaming contents to swish dangerously along the mouth of the cup.

“That’s the only explanation,” he insists to the mug. “There’s no other – “

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks sharply at John, his entrance unexpected, having been preoccupied with the internal battle on his sanity.

“Are you… talking to the mug?” John asks, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Sherlock blinks, setting the mug down. “Hardly. No.”

“Good to know,” says John, nodding like he is not convinced. He runs the towel through his hair before noticing the gift on the table. He spends a couple of seconds staring at the box and then the tea on the counter. He knows that it is not Sherlock’s usual brew, and the scent of green earl grey is all too familiar to him.

Sherlock notices the embarrassed flush creeping to his own cheeks, something that has not happened in awhile. He knows that even John is capable of piecing two and two together to deduce what this all meant.

John raises his eyes, and Sherlock barely manages to maintain the eye contact.

“Happy birthday, John,” he says quietly, as if the sentence was only meant for John’s ears.

John’s smile is slow and warm as he receives the birthday wish, observing as Sherlock’s cheeks tint pink.

“Thank you.”

John understands how fragile and rare the moment is. Sherlock is not the kind of person who remembers birthdays. He does not remember mundane things, and for Sherlock’s brain to register his birthday and tell his body to to take it upon itself to go through the effort of purchasing a gift and preparing morning tea…

It is a special moment.

“Is that for me?” John asks, raising his chin in the direction of the green paper wrapped box.

Sherlock looks to the offending box in question and nods. He looks away shortly after as John reaches for it, touching the blue bow carefully with a finger. The box is small and fits easily into the palm of his hand.

“Can I open it?”

It is an obvious question, yet John thought it necessary to seek permission.

Sherlock nods again, eyes directed carefully away from John and the present. John senses that he is nervous, having possibly never given anyone a gift before. He knows that it takes courage. It should be laughable that someone as brilliant as Sherlock should need courage for gift giving, but precisely because it is _Sherlock_ , John finds it both admirable and endearing.

John tugs at the bow and it falls open easily, the green wrapping paper unfolding slightly. He coaxes the rest of it away and he almost laughs at how dainty and detailed the gift is, amidst all the simplicity.

The box within is made of wood and he flicks open the golden clasp to reveal a sewing kit encasing needles and several small bundles of yarn and string.

John looks up at Sherlock who has been watching him open the gift.

“I can take it back if you don’t like it,” says Sherlock, already reaching towards the box.

“No!” says John, holding it protectively out of Sherlock’s reach. “No, it’s your gift. I want it.”

John takes a step away from Sherlock for good measure. “I just want to know why you gave me a sewing kit because your mind deduces things better than I do.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why would you want something you don’t see the value of?”

John begins to explain, but decides against it with a wave of his hand. “Nevermind. It’s not important. Can you please just enlighten me?”

“Is explaining birthday gifts a thing? I don’t recall Christmas being the same,” comments Sherlock drily.

John sighs and looks at Sherlock, giving him a half-exasperated smile.

“I’ll probably need this sewing kit more than I need anything else because it’s from you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“You notice details and it matters to me,” says John, touching the bundle of yarn in the sewing kit. “Your gift matters, and I want it.”

Sherlock eyes him carefully before straightening to his full height and closing the distance between them in two large strides.

“All right,” he says. “I noticed that the oatmeal jumper that you frequently wear often runs, and I logically deduced that it was either a) your favourite jumper, or b) of significant meaning and…”

“… You thought I would be upset if I could no longer wear it,” finishes John, the reason behind the gift dawning on him. He glances up at, and then away from Sherlock. The little things he notices.

The little things he _bothers_ to notice.

“Thank you."

They stand in silence for a while, the water from John’s hair dripping on the kitchen floor.

“Would you like to mend it for me?” he asks.

Sherlock blinks at him. “I can’t – “

“No, I insist,” says John with an air of finality, already heading up to his room before Sherlock is able to respond.

He returns shortly after, hair relatively dry and oatmeal jumper in hand.

“It’s my birthday,” he says, handing the woolen piece to Sherlock, together with the sewing kit.

Sherlock looks reluctantly at the jumper and the kit, but eventually sighs and complies.

John watches him struggle with the needle and yarn, hiding a smile behind his hand as Sherlock makes the most ridiculous patching job he has ever seen. There are knots and tangles, and when Sherlock finally finishes, it looks worse than it did before.

Looking fairly annoyed and frustrated, Sherlock gets up and rummages through the refrigerator for the head he was thinking about earlier. That would take his mind off the fact that he had gotten John a gift for his birthday and probably ruined his jumper with the very same gift.

John picks up the jumper and smooths his hand over the newly ‘patched’ area.

“I wore this when we went out for dinner the first time,” says John, and Sherlock immediately ceases the ruckus he is making.

“Well, it _technically_ wasn’t an actual dinner, but you got rid of my psychosomatic limp that night,” John recalls. “I was so free, so breathless, and god, Sherlock, I was _laughing_ for the first time since Afghanistan.”

John slowly raises his eyes, allowing Sherlock to fill in the blank spaces.

Sherlock’s mouth opens slightly, like he is about to say something. Eventually, he looks away and smiles.

_I’m not mad. I remembered because John’s birthday is important._

_John is important._

They look at each other and Sherlock abruptly closes the refrigerator while John packs the sewing kit and clasps the box shut.

“Thank you for remembering, Sherlock,” John says, holding up the jumper. “Brand new, and better than before.”

Sherlock observes him for a second.

“Either cannot sew to save his life or trusts someone enough to let them ruin a perfectly good jumper. That’s what I would deduce.”

John rolls his eyes heavenwards and gives Sherlock a lopsided grin.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Sherlock. Thank you.”

The sides of Sherlock’s mouth tug upwards into a slight smile as he nods and makes a grab for his coat and scarf.

“Where are you going?” asks John.

“Dinner reservation. Angelo’s.”

“Oh, there’s no need – “

“I have to see a man about a dog. I’ll meet you at Angelo’s tonight. 7PM. Wear the jumper,” interrupts Sherlock hurriedly, before disappearing through the door.

“Sherlock!”

As if on cue, Sherlock rushes back up the stairs and pops his head into the living room.

“I won’t go anywhere you can’t follow, John. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock nods towards the mug on the counter top.

“Also, the tea is cold. I don’t suggest keeping the talking mug waiting.”

With that, he disappears again, slamming the front door behind him, leaving a bewildered Mrs. Hudson yelling after him with a birthday cake in her hands.


End file.
